


once

by kalesmay



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, kind of? i took liberties with canon, this is just absolute indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 23:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10977735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalesmay/pseuds/kalesmay
Summary: The first time Dick Grayson meets Waylon Jones, he's a Flying Grayson, greeting the newest member of his circus.





	once

**Author's Note:**

> basically this is kind of based on a post by tumblr user waiting4codot (http://waiting4codot.tumblr.com/post/160753262948/random-codotverse-canon-waylon-jones-worked-at) about waylon being part of the circus dick grew up in and ensuing emotional things and as someone who will jump at any and every chance to humanize the rogues, here it is. i'm @dicktigers on tumblr!

The first time Dick Grayson sees Killer Croc, he's not wearing green panties, he's not Robin, and Croc isn't robbing a bank. The first time he sees Killer Croc, he is Dick Grayson of  _ The Flying Graysons _ , and he's waving to the newest member of their circus, Waylon Jones. His mama had told him not to stare at Mr. Jones, that he had a skin condition that made him look different and it was their job to treat him just like anyone else. Dick thought the scales on Mr. Jones' face were cool, and he told him so while he got settled in his tent.    
  
When Dick told him, Mr. Jones had smiled a little, surprised, like he wasn't used to being complimented. "Thank you," he said, one large, scaly hand coming up to scratch along the dome of his head. Dick gave him his brightest grin, and dashed out of the tent to meet his mama and dad for dinner.    
  
Waylon Jones didn't talk a lot, back at the circus. He was a popular attraction, as both a part of the  freak show and as a crocodile fighter. Dick didn't like the freak show, it made him sad to see people treated like that just for looking different, but Mr. Jones just stayed quiet and let people point, and retired to his compartment at the end of the day. Sometimes, Dick would knock on the door and greet Mr. Jones with a smile and a deck of cards held out as an offering. Mr. Jones would let him inside, saying it was a good thing Dick was so small because Waylon filled up most of the space in the compartment, and Mr. Jones would teach him new card games.    
  
Dick came to be very close to Mr. Jones, one of the few people who could stand to be around him without fear. He didn't understand it; he'd never been scared or disgusted by Mr. Jones' scales, and once Mr. Jones had even let him touch the hard surface of the ones covering his forearm. In return for his company and respect, Mr. Jones would slip Dick coins and trinkets and sweets. Dick was happy, and he thinks Mr. Jones was, too, until the night The Flying Graysons fell.    
  
As Dick watches his parents plummet, wishing they hadn't been so good, wishing there was a net or someone to catch them, wishing  _ he  _ could've caught them, he feels his heart shattering. He climbs down the rungs of the platform as quick as he can, nearly losing his footing a number of times. Dick makes a run for the crumpled bodies of his mother and father, but a solid arm wraps around his middle and pulls him back. He finds himself pressed into the hard chest of Mr. Jones, who is shaking just enough for Dick to notice. Dick thinks he might be shaking, too.    
  
There's a large hand cradling the back of Dick's head, keeping him from looking at everything he's lost. Mr. Jones, as large as he is, is knelt down, holding Dick tightly as he cries. Dick knows he's not  _ supposed  _ to cry, he's supposed to smile and wave and leap, put on a show for the crowd, but in the cool safety of Mr. Jones' neck, no one is looking, and he can fall apart. Mr. Jones is mumbling, humming something Dick doesn't recognize. One of Dick's favorite things about Mr. Jones is all his songs, that he said have been in his family for generations. They remind Dick of his mom's songs, from a family and a land an ocean away, and a new wave of sobs shakes Dick's body.    
  
In his low, guttural voice, Mr. Jones says, "I'm sorry you had to see that, child, I'm real sorry," and Dick just wants to cling to him until the hole in his chest goes away, but the Police Commissioner is kneeling down beside them now and asking Dick questions and he finds himself wishing Mr. Jones would scare him off and let him be broken a little longer, but the Commissioner grabs Dick under the armpits and lifts him like he's nothing, and maybe, Dick thinks, he's not, maybe his heart and lungs and everything that makes him alive died with his parents and he's just a shell. He feels like one.    
  
"C'mon, kid, there's someone I want you to meet, alright?" The Commissioner's voice isn't as low as Mr. Jones', or as familiar, and Dick doesn't meet his eyes when he nods. He's looking over his shoulder at Mr. Jones, brushing the dust off of his khaki pants, looking more human than Dick's ever seen them. Right before he screws his eyes shut, Dick can swear he sees Mr. Jones crying, one big crocodile tear weaving down the grooves in his face.

 

* * *

  
  
Dick doesn't see Waylon Jones for almost 3 years. His name is Robin, now, and he doesn't fly off the trapeze anymore. He jumps from rooftop to Gotham rooftop, in the colors of his mom's favorite dress, wearing the plumage and the moniker of the bird she used to call him. "My little robin", she would say, as she tucked him into bed, her little bird born on the first of spring. Sometimes, his father would call him a bird brain and ruffle his hair. Now, he's Bruce Wayne's ward and fights crime. Waylon Jones is Killer Croc, and he's standing in an open bank vault, tail flicking back and forth in agitation. There's a handful of bodies strewn across the tile floors, stains of red, and he looks less human than he ever has, but it's him. Dick would be able to recognize him from a single scale. He can't move.    
  
At Batman's arrival, Mr. Jones -- or should he call him Killer Croc, is there a difference? Was this who Mr. Jones was all along, or is this what he became after Dick left him? He doesn't want to know -- turns and his reptilian eyes go wide. He drops his sack of money, bills floating up around him, claws constricting around air. It's silent, and Dick knows Mr. Jones recognizes him. (He  _ can't  _ call him Killer Croc, won't call the man who played cards with him and shielded him from the horror that was his parents lifeless bodies by a monster's name). Then, Batman shouts, " _ Robin! _ " and the moment is broken and Dick is reminded that Mr. Jones is the bad guy like a punch to the gut. But he can't disappoint Bruce, not again, so he charges, flipping in midair and swiping the bag of cash away. Waylon lets him. Ignoring Dick completely save for one sorrowful glance, he barrels towards Batman and they clash with a roar. Dick feels sick to his stomach, the way he doesn't know who he wants to win.    
  
Mr. Jones fights Batman, and Robin checks for survivors like he's supposed to. Of the 5 bodies, only three of them are still breathing, and Dick is reminded of the power within Mr. Jones, the power that was never used to harm Dick, and still hasn't been. Dick wants them to stop fighting, can't stand to see the man who plays baseball with him on the sprawling lawn of the Manor aiming kicks at the one who taught him how to play spades. He radios for the police, wanting the Commissioner and Bullock and whoever else to get here so Dick can leave and not have to watch Mr. Jones rake his claws across Batman's chest, or see a Batarang embed itself in one of the soft spots between scales. Every grunt and groan of pain settles in Dick's gut like acid, and he just wants to be  _ home _ , on the circus caravan with a piece of candy in his cheek and Mr. Jones' large hands fanning out a deck of cards like they're made of glass.    
  
Dick must make a noise, an audible wince, because Mr. Jones pauses, the face of Killer Croc slipping and he turns a fraction to regard Dick out of the corner of his eye. Batman, seizing the opportunity, throws an explosive Batarang and knocks him out, just in time for the police to arrive and load the victims onto stretchers and for Batman to strap Waylon into the armored back of the Batmobile. Dick sits in the passenger seat, as silent and stoic as the man sitting beside him. He doesn't speak the rest of the night.    
  
From that point on, the job was different. Bruce noticed, because he noticed everything, but Dick wasn't telling, couldn't possibly explain this violent collision of everything he cared about. So, he stayed out of Mr. Jones' way, and he did the same for Dick. It didn't matter for much longer; Dick was getting older, and passed the mantle onto a boy named Jason Todd, taking up a new name from a Kryptonian story, Nightwing. Giving Jason the name his mother had christened him with hurt, hurt like seeing Batman and Waylon fight. But, just like he's always done, Dick compartmentalizes and moves on. He joins the Titans and he doesn't think about the way he's losing everything that made him a Flying Grayson.

 

* * *

  
  
It'd be pandemonium for anywhere else in the world, but for Gotham, it's just another weekday. Riddler's out of Arkham again, sending Bruce on another green hued goose chase. Jason, newly 15, is his red and yellow shadow, the pair of them matching Riddler wit for wit. Unfortunately, this leaves Killer Croc free to emerge from the sewers and break into a few vaults; Dick radios in and says he'll handle it before he realizes what he's doing. Bruce, dodging a punch from a henchman, agrees, cutting the connection. Almost giddy, because he doesn't know what he's going to say but knowing he's going to say  _ something _ , Dick suits up, becomes Nightwing. He attaches his escrima to his back and takes his motorbike to Gotham, trying to control his breathing the entire ride.    
  
It's not hard to find the bank Waylon's inside; Oracle has eyes everywhere and sends him a location. She also doesn't question it when he asks if she can turn all eyes and ears off of him, just for tonight. Every day, Dick Grayson thanks the stars in the sky for Barbara Gordon.    
  
He parks his bike outside the bank, walks through the doors that look like they were ripped off the hinges -- and probably were. Dick doesn't bother with being quiet. Croc turns around, teeth bared, but Dick shakes his head. "It's just me," he says, pulling off his domino and letting it fall to the floor. "Hey, Mr. Jones."    
  
Saying it, after almost a decade, takes more out of him than he thought it would. It's not about Waylon, not entirely. It's about him being one of the most important parts of Dick as a circus boy, following him to the life of Dick as a boy wonder, warped beyond belief. It's about Waylon being someone else Dick couldn't save, about having to watch him hurt again and again.    
  
Mr. Jones closes his eyes, thin reptilian eyelids sliding over the same copper eyes that watched Dick, aged 7, over the top of a book. Slowly, slowly, he shuffles out of the vault, tail dragging behind him. With a deep, rattling sigh, Mr. Jones leans his body against the wall and slides down, kneeling next to the open door of the vault. He looks tired, and broken, and so very much like the man who held Dick in his arms the night his parents died. Cautiously, Dick makes his way to the wall, sitting on the opposite side of the vault. They don't say anything, just look and catalog the changes since the last time they sat together like this.    
  
Waylon stretches one leg out, tail shifting across the floor to span the gap between him and Dick, like a bridge. "You've grown, child," he says, gravelly voice achingly familiar. "You're a man now, huh?"    
  
All these years, and this is what they have to say to each other. Dick can't help but laugh. "Yeah, I guess I am." Tentative, like the first time he did it, Dick places a gentle hand on Mr. Jones' tail, feeling the ridges of the scales. Tension eases in Waylon's shoulders, at the way Dick treats him like Mr. Jones, and not Killer Croc.    
  
"There's a new Robin now, too. Gave me a hell of a shock. Just 'bout as big as the one you gave me, that first night. Felt like I was seein' a ghost." Waylon takes a shuddering breath that wheezes through his nostrils. "I'm sorry, child."    
  
Dick didn't have to ask what for; he knew, they both did. For what it was worth, Dick was sorry too. He nods, tightening his grip on Waylon's tail. "Can you, could you tell me something, though?" He waits for Mr. Jones to move his head in an approximation of a nod before continuing. "Why? I mean, would things have been different if I...if I hadn't left?" Alfred tells him it's not possible to save everyone, but Bruce thinks you should try. Jason thinks you should only save the ones who deserve it, and Dick just doesn't want to be the reason someone couldn't be saved. He's soft, he knows, but he's a hero, and heroes don't let people down.    
  
Mr. Jones shakes his head. "No, child, I was a monster long 'fore I joined that circus an' I'm still one now. Only difference is, I embrace it."    
  
"You're not a monster," Dick insists, because no matter how high Killer Croc's body count gets, he'll never stop being the man that let a 6 year old Dick Grayson play with his scales. That kind of thing never goes away. "You never were."   
  
"My grandma raised me, boy. My mama died and my daddy left, and my nana raised me. She drank, drank so much that I don't think she knew I was there half the time. The other half, she treated me real bad, Dick. She looked at me and saw a monster, and you don't just let a monster alone." Waylon was never a talker as long as Dick had known him, and the veritable waterfall of words now made Dick realize this was important, and he couldn't miss a single word. "I killed her, child. Killed her dead. That's before I joined your circus, before all of this. I've always been a monster. Ain't nothin' change that."    
  
Dick feels every word in his chest, knew the confession for what it was, an admission that he had never been who Dick saw him to be. He wonders if it's bad that knowing this about Waylon changes nothing for him, and nothing ever will. "I don't think you're a monster, Mr. Jones. I never did, and I still don't. Monsters, real monsters, don't do what you did for me."    
  
  
Waylon hums, deep in his throat. "You, I always knew you was a hero. You been meant to fly since the day you was born. I know it don't mean much from a criminal, but I'm real proud of you, child."    
  
Killer Croc leaves the bank empty handed, and Dick lets him go.    
  
Oracle turns his comms back on, and Dick sends Batman a mission report. "Nothing taken, but he's gone." He doesn't have it in him for a one liner right now, feeling too raw, wishing for the refuge of a cool shoulder where he's allowed to not perform, just for a minute.    
  
"You let him get away." Batman's voice is flat over the comms, not a question.    
  
"Yeah, I did," Dick says, weary. "I'm in Blüdhaven if you need me, Nightwing out."   
  
He doesn't tell Bruce that Waylon Jones taught him how to play cards, or helped him memorize poems. He doesn't tell Bruce that tonight, backs to a bank vault, he and Waylon Jones talked about Haly's Circus and life in Gotham. He doesn't tell Bruce that Killer Croc promised not to cause more trouble than he had to, because Gotham may be his city, but it wasn't his business.    
  
Dick goes home.


End file.
